Longing For Home
by Phoenixflames12
Summary: Toska (Russian) A dull ache of the soul; a longing with nothing to long for. Joly longs for a home that has long since vanished. (Could be seen as part of the Fallen Angels Universe, although it is not necessary to read that first!) Please feel free to read and review! Much love and enjoy x (Oneshot)


_**Toska (Russian): A dull ache of the soul; a longing with nothing to long for.**_

**_This very, very short one-shot could almost fit into the Fallen Angels Universe, although it is not necessary to have read that first. _**

**_Joly longs for a home that has long since vanished._**

**_Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me! _**

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Toska

_Toska (Russian): A dull ache of the soul; a longing with nothing to long for_

Joly pauses for a moment as he looks up from his papers; the pen that had, not a moment ago, been swirling around his fingers; now caught in the hard, supple skin of his palm. The sky outside the apartment building is a cool, iron grey; the sun casting a shaft of sunlight directly onto the twin block of high-rise flats that seem to grow from nothingness as they tower over the neighbourhood. He sees fire; bright oranges, flaming reds, sparks of carnation yellow dancing across the drab, pebbledash surface, as if the sun is a thunderbolt and has pierced the building's cold, stone heart into flame.

Somehow, it makes him think of home. It is a strange feeling; a dull ache that builds within the pit of his stomach; making him long for log fires and blankets, for the jabber of his sisters bubbling over with barely contained excitement, for the smell of cinnamon, for the crisp, cold bite of that first, perfect snowfall where the world was blanketed in a cocoon of calmness.

His soul seems to ache for home; and yet home now is a distant memory; a collection of photographs, tarnished with age; the smiles seeming too fixed, the adventures slipping through his fingers like watered silk.

Home is simply a collection of papers; of once frequent letters sent from his sisters when their aunt sent them away to boarding school after his parents' writings against the government were discovered and they were both arrested, tried and executed for High Treason against the state.

They had been nearing their tenth birthday.

He had been fifteen.

He remembers their faces when he had said goodbye to them at the train; pale, frightened faces that reminded him so much of his Mother, it hurt as they clung to his hands and begged him to write to them. Begged him to come and find them, to rescue them from the artic halls of the convent boarding school. Pale faces, eyes now a cold, flat blue; frozen hands chapped with chilblains reaching up to him, pleading with him to set them free. They were little doves; little doves of memory; too good for this cold, ice covered world; too full of life; brimming over with endless love for life.

He does not hear the door to the office being pushed open. Does not hear the quiet footfalls, does not even feel the calloused hand gripping his shoulder in a silent act of solidarity.

'Do you miss them?'

_Every day, _he wants to reply; but the words catch in his throat and he forces them back; knowing that this is neither the time nor the place for such sentiment. Knowing that anyone; anyone could be listening, that even the walls had ears and talk; even talk amongst colleagues was expensive and dangerous and anything, anything at all could be twisted by the officials to be a statement against the Regime.

'It will get better', Combeferre's voice is barely a whisper against the hushed darkness of the room.

'Will it?' He asks, wishing that he could hold back the sudden bite of bitterness that laces the question. After seven years of service to the Capital, he should know better than to allow his emotions get the better of him like this.

The hand on his shoulder tightens its' grip and he feels his cheeks flush; hastily trying to form an apology that doesn't seem to come.

'Legends have a habit of becoming true, you know', the philosopher's tone is thoughtful as together they watch the sunset's dying fire take its' final bow as it sinks gracefully into the indigo horizon.

_**Fin**_

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_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Questions, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain! **_

_**Now that I've finished both 'Titanic the Musical' and the majority of this semester's coursework, I should have more time to write (hopefully) before exams start. Watch this space!**_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_


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